Myths Spring From the Grass
by Nadya-child
Summary: There is a great deal that Methos doesn't remember about his past. But when a frightening child shows up in the midst of dreams, can he remember and set things right before he does something else he'll regret?
1. In Every Legend There is a Seed of Truth

Disclaimer-- Duncan MacLeod, Methos, Joe Dawson, Peter Pan, and all such wonderful characters certainly do NOT belong to me. They merely show up in my life now and again and whisper stories in my ear. Especially Methos, he loves to get me into situations of obsession that I then have to "write my way out of". I think it amuses him. But, so as to avoid any legal banter, these characters belong to people with LOTS more money and LOTS more lawyers than me (seeing as I am a poor grad student). Any other characters belong to _amin_ (I). So bravo to Davis & Panzer and J. M. Barrie, and on with the story!  
  
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Chapter 1 -- In Every Legend There is a Seed of Truth  
  
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Though many an unsung elegy

Sleeps in the reeds our rivers hold,

O goat-foot God of Arcady!

Ah, what remains to us of thee?

Ah, leave the hills of Arcady,

Thy satyrs and their wanton play,

This modern world hath need of thee.

Excerpt from_ Pan _by Oscar Wilde

"Hey, Nadya! Could you be a dear and take this order over to table 10?"

"Sure thing, Anna." Nadya grasped the tray and hurried over to a table in a secluded alcove of the club. Anna was Joe Dawson's new head-waitress and Nadya liked her a great deal, especially when she came to help out at the bar. Ever since Joe had moved back to Seacouver and re-opened the bar, business had been very, very good. Many faithful patrons had missed good old Joe.

Over the past year, Nadya Jamesson had found work at one of the publishing companies in town, and things were working quite well for her. Some of her writing was even in process of being published.

As she neared the table, Nadya could see that the occupant was none other than Methos! She immediately considered returning the bottle of Heineken for a bottle of water but thought better of it. Planting a hand on her hip, she held the tray aloft before the old Immortal.

He didn't seem to notice her at first, too busy writing in the book before him. His journal, no doubt. Nadya could often find him writing in it nowadays. Secretly, she wondered if there were any entries about her.

"Yes, you're in here, too."

So he **had** noticed her.

"And, no, you can't exchange my beer for something 'less potent'," he continued dryly, still writing.

Nadya shook her head in slight annoyance that he had come to know her so well in only a year. There was little getting around the 5,000-year-old Immortal anymore. Setting the bottle down, she tucked the empty tray under her arm and lingered at the table.

Methos never dropped a letter, seeming to ignore her completely. Finally, he spoke again. "Would you like to see?"

Sitting, Nadya smiled. "Sure!"

Smirking, Methos turned the red leather book so that its pages were right side up before her. It was all there, written beautifully...in perfect Russian!

Nadya shoved the journal back at him. "Provoking creature!" He just laughed annoyingly.

Leaping up, she went to return the tray to Anna. Methos was still chuckling.

"Why do you tease her so, Methos?" Joe sat down next to him.

"One always plays with the baby, Joe," the ancient replied flippantly.

Joe nodded. "True, but Nadya's _not_ a baby."

"Perhaps not to you."

She was right; he could be a perfectly provoking creature when he chose. And he chose to be so. He enjoyed teasing Nadya; she was his easiest target sometimes. Well, on with the writing.

Joe just shook his head at Methos, knowing that he was incorrigible, plain and simple. Glancing up, Joe watched Nadya move to and fro through the club, pausing at the table of friends to sing some old blues that they liked. She was a talented one, that girl. She had become like a daughter to Joe, the daughter he'd never gotten a chance to know.

It was while before the Watcher broke his thought-process. He'd gotten caught up, too many years in the field. Old habits die hard. When he glanced up, he saw that Methos' pen was still and quiet upon the journal's pages. He, too, was watching Nadya, the look in his eyes somewhat softer.

Joe said nothing, he barely even moved. He—not the Watcher in him but he, Joe Dawson—wanted to observe this moment, this side of Methos. This look was similar to the one that Joe had seen light the old man's eyes when he'd first met Alexa and it was, at the same time, a different look altogether.

Utterly lost in his own world, Methos finally dropped his gaze. Then he pursed his lips, shrugged his shoulders, and picked up his pen to write again.

'_Looks like the old man might yet have a heart to give,'_ Joe thought as he rose stiffly from the table and thumped over to the bar.

Methos never looked up.

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****

Find Pan!

It drilled her mind like a merciless war drum. It had for so very long.

**_Find Pan!_**

Water. Cold. Cement. Rough. Clammy.

Where was she?

**_Find Pan!_**

'Leave me alone! I don't have a mind for you to plague anymore!'

Find Pan!

Wind. Rushing. Loud.

_'All I want is peace.'_

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"Come fly with me."

She held out her hand. He was skeptical at best.

"You can't fly."

"Sure I can. And so can you."

Her hand still waited and, finally, Methos slipped his into it and climbed onto the window sill. The moon was full, chill, its light smooth and silver. Stars winked and watched.

A perfect swan-dive, lighter than air. Nothing could hold her down.

But...she fell! And her scream was all he heard. He could do nothing.

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Cold! Wake up!

_Where am I?_

Methos sat bolt upright in bed, a sweat sheeting his skin. He turned towards the large bay window, expecting to find it open. But, no, it was closed. Locked fast.

It has been a dream. No, a nightmare!

The old man hunched over, his face in his hands. It was the fourth dream in as many nights and it was starting to get to him. This time it was Nadya but, before, it had been another girl. A child, "no more than a bairn" as MacLeod might have said. In the dream, the child called to him. But it wasn't his name. It was something else; something lost on the wind.

She had no face. He always saw swirling black hair, tiny bare hands and feet, but never a face. It was that absence of a face that haunted him...and her voice.

Methos threw the bedclothes back. He needed a drink, a stiff one. Instead of beer, he reached for the vodka bottle and a shot glass. Several shots later, he climbed back into the king-sized bed.

But he didn't sleep. He just sat there, in the dark, alone.


	2. Mistakes and Penances

Chapter 2 -- Mistakes and Penances

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It wasn't normal and she didn't like it! Nadya stalked out of the publishing house and down the street, unheeding of the 5pm pedestrians about her. She'd been screwed with for the last time!  
  
The first time, she'd been confused. The second, annoyed. The third, righteously indignant. Now, she was plain bloody angry!  
  
When she reached her split-level studio over the Seacouver Bay, she threw her things down and punched the PLAY button on the answering machine. As if the poor white contraption had done anything to her, but she'd recently come into a serious dislike of telephones and answering machines.  
  
The messages began to cycle through as she grabbed a Pepsi from the fridge, opening it hard enough to snap the metal tab clean off and toss it in the corner.  
  
'The annoying prick...' Her mind was suddenly full of ways that she could kill him.  
  
No messages from him. Only MacLeod.  
  
"I could use a visit to the dojo." With that, she stalked to her bedroom to change.  
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Duncan smiled as he felt a faint tingle, almost a tickle in the back of his brain. Nadya's pre-Immortality was getting easier to sense by the day.  
  
"Hi, Nadya!" He turned with a smile only to see her lay two kicks—the best he'd ever seen out of her—into the hanging punching bag.  
  
"Tell me, Mac, how'd you like a 5,000-year-old Quickening, hmm?" There was anger dripping from her voice.  
  
'Uh-oh!'  
  
"Something wrong?" Just then, a very powerful buzz hit Mac. 'Oy, your timing really sucks, old man!'  
  
Nadya saw the telltale head-bob-and-scan and, immediately grabbing the short sword that he had been sharpening, she stalked towards the door...just as Methos entered. Now, a mortal girl against the oldest Immortal ever. Not much of a fight, right? But think of a girl who has the temper of a cat and a wiry frame to back it up...angry...with a sword.  
  
When he saw the sword, Methos was a little confused but then he saw the look on Nadya's face. She wasn't Immortal yet—didn't even know she was—but she bore the look of someone ready to start chopping off heads. His brain immediately went into fight-or-flight mode: the tendency to fight back when attacked or to run for protection. And Methos usually chose the latter. But there was no need to choose this time, as it was chosen for him.  
  
MacLeod easily disarmed his student and picked her up around her waist, tucking her small frame securely under his arm. "Let me down! I'm not going to do much! Just kill him a few times is all!" she screamed, kicking. "I, uh, think you've upset her." Mac indicated to the scowling young woman.  
  
"No bloody joke!" Methos snatched the gladius from Mac.  
  
"Let's find out how and why, shall we?" With that, Duncan turned for the stairs but not before Methos revenged himself on Nadya by smacking her backside with the flat of the sword. 'Might as well amuse myself if I am to be scolded,' though he had not the foggiest idea what for.  
  
"I'm going to kill you with my bare hands!" she shrieked at him.  
  
"Now that sounds familiar," the old man muttered to himself with a cynical curve to his mouth. 'Except there's not a cage between the psychotic woman and me this time. Wonderful way to start an evening.'  
  
"Sit!" Duncan ordered, depositing Nadya on the nearest couch. She had calmed down considerably. Being tucked under the Highlander's arm like a sack of grain will do that to your pride.  
  
"Now, what's wrong?"  
  
She wouldn't speak.  
  
"Come on, Nadya. Act your age," Duncan pleaded.  
  
"I lost my job today," her voice was still threateningly low.  
  
"What? Why?" Methos was taken aback. Nadya worked too hard for them to fire her.  
  
"That book that Adam James has been promising is three months overdue. The company is losing deposit expenses with printers and booksellers. So they found it easier to fire me than to track you down."  
  
Mentally, Methos kicked himself. Hard. He had promised Nadya's employers a book on Nefertiti, what with the entire buzz about her remains being found. He needed the extra funds. 'She was another homicidal hose-beast,' but that train of thought was for another day.

"Uhm....I forgot?"

With this revelation and lame explanation, Mac handed Nadya the sword again. "So sorry to have interrupted. Please, continue." And he left for the kitchen.

"Come on, Nadya. I'll fix it; I'll make it right. MACLEOD!! What have you been teaching her?"

"Come here, Methos. I want to show you exactly what he's taught me." Nadya took a well-aimed swipe at his mid-section. 'I'm not going to really kill him, just make him hurt for a while. Just a while.'

Mac got a cup of coffee and ignored Methos' cries for assistance. This time, "flight" indeed had the upper hand.


	3. Stuff of Nightmares

**Disclaimer**-- Duncan MacLeod, Methos, Joe Dawson, Peter Pan, and all such wonderful characters certainly do NOT belong to me. They merely show up in my life now and again and whisper stories in my ear. Especially Methos, he loves to get me into situations of obsession that I then have to "write my way out of". I think it amuses him. But, so as to avoid any legal banter, these characters belong to people with LOTS more money and LOTS more lawyers than me (seeing as I am a poor college student). Any other characters belong to amin (I). So bravo to Davis & Panzer and J. M. Barrie on with the story!  
  
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Chapter 3 -- Stuff of Nightmares  
  
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For a moment. Only for a moment, she flew! The air iced her cheeks and the wind seemed to lift her...

But then she fell. Crashing through time and space. Color blurring to white, then grey, then black. The voice quieted, ceased its torment as light became dark.

Silence.

Peace.

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"What in the name of....?" An old woman held up her bifocals to the window. Something white. It had just fluttered past and vanished. No, it couldn't be.

She returned to knitting.

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Methos woke, panting. Chilled with sweat.

The same dream, only different. Now two people fell: the child and Nadya. And, again, he could do nothing.

'What? What do you want with me?'

As he looked around the darkened room. Methos thought he heard, "Pan!"

The voice was pinched, ethereal, and hopeless.

The window was open and the curtains fluttered in the night air. But something else flowed amongst them.

A nightgown?

**_Pan!_**

Scrambling from the bed, the ancient searched the curtains but all his hands found were the soft, unoffending lengths of cloth.

"Am I losing my mind?" he barely breathed to himself, for fear it might be true.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - "Pan?" Joe scratched the side of his face thoughtfully. It was way too early in the morning for this. But Methos was a friend. 

"No, never heard of any Immortal by that name."

"Are you sure? Nothing in Rome? Or in Greece...Pan was quite a popular deity there. Perhaps someone took a liking to the popularity." Methos sounded desperate, clinging to his coffee mug as if for dear life.

"Are you sure _you_ didn't?" The question came out quite sharper than Joe had intended it to be.

Methos said nothing, just staring into the black depths of his cup. It was true, he couldn't even discount himself; he just couldn't think, couldn't remember.

Joe shrugged. "Sorry, man. Maybe I shouldn't have said that." After all, the ancient wasn't the kind to go around _looking_ for recognition.

Methos sighed and hung his head; he hadn't slept in days and he was beginning to look like it. An Immortal system didn't reciprocate for lack of sleep. Everything was beginning to blur.

"Go home, Methos. Get some rest."

"Easier said than done." With that, the old man rose from Joe's couch and made his way out the door.

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**_Find Pan!_**

It slashed across her conscious like a whip lashing at her brain.

**_Find Pan!_**

She had woken in a dark alley. The voice had returned! She has hoped this time would be permanent.

'_Leave me be! I beg you!'_

**Find Pan!**

Rising to her feet, she continued on.

Driven. Haunted.

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Nadya sat on the floor by her coffee table, absent-mindedly working at an ink sketch. It was a scant tree on a hill, a few leaves clinging to its claw like branches, some fluttering away on a breeze. A sunset cast its rays over the tree, throwing its shadow to the east.

The little artist sat quite comfortably on the floor, one leg bent at the knee, the other lying on its side and curving beneath the bent leg. She wore her favorite jeans, comfy, slightly baggy, and broken in. Just like the black tank she wore.

The night was beginning to wane but, as a good friend often said, "There's plenty of time to sleep when you're dead." So she continued the sketch.

She was of a much better mind now. She'd gotten the anger out of her system and had gotten her job back. The powers that be saw that the publishing house was worse off without her and had asked her back, even _sans_ Methos' missing book.

So, for now, all was right with the world. Well, Methos might disagree. She had chased him about for a good ten minutes, just enough to worry him.

Finally, MacLeod had put a stop to the whole thing. Methos was none too pleased and anxious to get the gladius away from Nadya again. Even with the scant training with a sword that Mac had given her, it was enough to make Methos nervous. He had been against the whole idea from the start, teaching Nadya swordplay.

'Bloody hornets' nest, that's what it was.'

**_Six months earlier _**

"This is utter madness! You cannot be serious!"

Methos stood in utter shock at Duncan's suggestion. It was, in his mind, ludicrous—especially coming from the Highlander.

"You're seriously wanting to teach Nadya to fight?" Methos planted his hands on non-existent hips, his whole stance incredulous.

Duncan was always intrigued by how slim Methos appeared and was, even when swallowed by a too-big black sweater; yet there was strength in the old man's stance. The Highlander shrugged. "Well, yeah."

"Don't you think that's going to raise a few questions as to 'why'?"

"I've thought of that!" Duncan sat down at his desk in the dojo office. "She's been admiring my katana lately so I figured I'd use that as an excuse to teach her to fight. That way, should worst come to worst, she won't be unprepared."

Methos leaned forward, his hands planted on the desk, and shook his head. "I just don't like it, MacLeod. It contradicts everything you have been jamming down my throat about Nadya's immortality. Something bad is bound to come of it."

Methos: the everlasting pessimist.

Duncan sighed. Only Methos could always find holes in the best-laid plans, and it annoyed him. "Look, Methos, I'm just trying to be cautious, that's all it is."

Methos gave him **that** look. "Bull! And you know it, MacLeod! You're trying to make up for the mistakes you made with Richie, concentrating him on defending himself rather than how to live life while he had it."

Duncan winced, for the old Immortal had hit a sore spot, a very sore spot. Methos knew he was stepping close to the line but he wanted to be sure—and for Mac to be sure—of his motives for teaching Nadya sword-handling.

Silence reigned in the room for a while and then Duncan nodded vaguely. "Perhaps I am trying to make up for what went wrong with Richie. But I honestly don't want to leave her defenseless. You and I won't always be around to watch over her; I want to be sure that she can take care of herself."

With that, Duncan rose from the desk and reached for an elegant sword case on the shelf.

It was beautiful purple heartwood, stained with a glorious, deep varnish. Snapping it open, Methos saw, nestled in black velvet, an elegant, newly-made sword, much in likeness to that belonging to a Crusader. The pommel and hilt were of smooth silver with a silk-wrapped handle. Small enough for a woman's use but the double-edged blade was quite slender and made of Damascus steel; Methos recognized the grain in the blade. It was the strongest steel money could buy these days, and this weapon was simply beautiful. The most beautiful Methos had seen in a long while.

"When did you buy this, MacLeod?" the old man asked, peering at the sword.

"I had it made by a friend in Paris shortly after Nadya first came back," MacLeod watched Methos run his fingertips over the flat of the sword. "Wasn't sure exactly why then."

"And you're sure now?"

Duncan didn't reply. It had been a year since Malfoy had lost his head when he had come after Nadya. A quiet year, thank goodness. The fellows had adjusted to having Nadya around and were glad to have her as part of the "family". She gave that feminine touch that Amanda wasn't around long enough to give. Mac appreciated the comfort of finding half-drunk bottles of V8 Splash in his fridge; Methos "enjoyed" almost daily scoldings about his excessive drinking of beer; and Joe often saw Nadya when she dropped by the bar to question about his health, his work, and if he needed any help running the place.

Finally, Methos shrugged, looking down at the sword again. "I don't understand, MacLeod. Why now?"

Duncan sighed. "I don't know, Methos, but I feel I need to." With that, he shut the case.

The old man could tell that the stubborn Boy Scout was intent and so conceded the fight. But he was still pessimistic. "It's going to raise questions, MacLeod, and you know who's going to get stuck with them? Me!"

That said, he sauntered out for a drink. He'd take his daily scolding later, on a full tank.  
  
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	4. Lost and Alone

**Disclaimer**-- Duncan MacLeod, Methos, Joe Dawson, Peter Pan and all such wonderful characters certainly do NOT belong to me. They merely show up in my life now and again and whisper stories in my ear. Especially Methos, he loves to get me into situations of obsession that I then have to "write my way out of". I think it amuses him. But, so as to avoid any legal banter, these characters belong to people with LOTS more money and LOTS more lawyers than me (seeing as I am a poor grad student). Any other characters belong to amin (I). So bravo to Davis & Panzer and J. M. Barrie on with the story!  
  
**About the canon **-- I will be following "Highlander: the Series" as closely as I can remember, in part. Plus, whatever parts of mythology/literature I see fit to use or change. Finally, as a friend of mine once said, "anything and everything else I have in store for the characters is, well, my prerogative; it's my fanfic—MINE"—and is the fault of my annoying little muse that made me appease him (glares at Methos).  
  
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Chapter 4 -- Lost and Alone  
  
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Nadya snickered to herself at the memory of the look on the old man's face. It had been classic! Imagine mingled surprise, shock, confusion, and anger. She didn't flatter herself that there had been any fear. No. Concern, maybe. But fear? No, not out of this ancient. Still, it had made her feel much better.

Finally, she dropped her pen. Pulling her shoes and jacket, she ventured down her back steps and wandered over to the breakwater. Climbing the rocks she had known from childhood, she stood, listening to the waves and looking at the sky. The moon was beginning set as the starts winked at her brightly and admired themselves in the ocean's mirror surface. Nadya liked being here, away from the major bustle of the city, where she could hear water breaking on rock and see the stars at night.

As she looked down over the rocks of the breakwater, her eyes caught a glimpse of something. Something white. It fluttered slightly against the rocks.

"What's that?"

Nadya bent down on her knees, planting her hands on two out-jutting rocks and leaning forward for a better look. It was a nightgown! But, beneath it, two milky feet showed!

Wasting no time, the young woman scurried over the rocks that she had climbed all her life. The rocks closer to the water were wet and slick, cold to the touch and Nadya's hands were soon numb, her feet sometimes slipping, but her balance was sure and she soon came to rest near a form cradled in a cleft of the rock.

It was a child! A little girl. She seemed asleep, her breathing steady. Nadya touched her and the child's eyes fluttered, barely. Then her whole body began to shiver, her lips were blue and her skin like ice.

"P-p-p-p-pa…." She tried to speak but the hypothermia wouldn't let her.

"It's ok, dearest. It's ok. You're going to be fine." Nadya crooned softly as she took off her jacket and wrapped it about the girl.

The ocean air hit her hard and the icy spray soaked her clear through. But her mind was set on getting this little one to safety. Bundling the shivering girl in her arms, Nadya scaled up the rocks again and made her way home as quickly as possible.

She was a beautiful thing. The rocking chair squeaked homily as Nadya watched over the sleeping girl.

There was no way she could be older then 8 years old. Her hair fell in curly waves over her shoulders, long unkempt. The nightgown was old, dirty, torn, and soiled. The poor child was unshod and in need of a bath. But despite this, she was beautiful.

Tucked into the well-covered bed with warm 'woobies' on either side of her, the blue had gone down in her lips and a smallish pink was slowly returning.

Nadya brushed her hair back quietly. "What's a darling like you doing all alone?" No answer. Not now.

Shortly after sunrise, the rustle of bedclothes awakened Nadya. When she straightened in the rocking chair, she found the girl was sitting up in bed studying her intently.

Nadya was right; she was a beautiful child. But her eyes caught the young woman totally off-guard, for they were a bright violet, fading into gray specks near the pupils. It was almost like life fading away into darkness. In those eyes, Nadya could see on forever; it seemed to her that there were centuries behind those eyes. But that was impossible for one so small…wasn't it?

Moving slowly, she slid from the chair to kneel on the floor by the bed. "Hello, little one. Are you all right?"

The child didn't speak, only nodded.

A smile pulled at Nadya's mouth, a quiet one. She found herself so curious about her ward but she instinctively knew that questions were hopeless at this point. Perhaps at any point.

"I'm Nadya. What's your name?"

No answer. Only a sorrowful look.

_'She doesn't have one.'_ The realization hit Nadya hard.

As the child looked ready to burst into tears, she quickly proposed getting cleaned up. The girl seemed to perk a little at this and allowed Nadya to gather her up and bundle her into the bathroom.

Soon, a sprightly child sat in Nadya's favorite chair, squeaky clean, her hair washed and brushed, and in one of her caretaker's comfy t-shirts. She simply sat there, staring out of the window at the sea.

_'What am I going to do with her? Turn her over to social services so that she can bounce from foster home to foster home, or maybe even a mental facility? Not bloody likely!'_

"Come on, sweetheart. Let's go see someone."

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"I'm serious, MacLeod! You need to get rid of the opera or I am going to have to do some spring cleaning for you!"

"What? 24-hour access to my fridge and my beer not enough for you?" the Scot questioned dryly.

"Frankly, no."

Duncan aimed a dirty look in the old man's direction.

_'Shot fired. Target missed.'_ Methos smirked. _'When is the Boy Scout going to learn?'_

Garnering himself another beer, he then proceeded to stretch himself out in a perfect sprawl that was the envy of any cat within peering range. He sunk down on Mac's couch until his head rested in the middle of the back cushions, his right leg bent at the knee and the left one resting extended on the antique coffee table. It was a magnificent double panel of late 18th-century Chinese black and gold lacquer, depicting peacocks and cranes perched on rocks and flowering branches, with pavilions in the background, mounted on a modern black painted Cobham leg base as a low table. Very beautiful, and just the perfect height for his foot. Methos' back bent at an angle that would make a contortionist yowl and yet only made him sigh with satisfaction as various joints popped and settled.

Then he counted.

_'3-2-1…'_

"Methos! Get your feet off the coffee table!!! That's an antique!!!" MacLeod bellowed, the old man mimicking in perfect sync.

"And you have millions worth more." The ancient foot didn't move.

Duncan growled something in Gaelic and strode to the kitchen, while Methos just gave that annoyingly charming smile.

Just then, the familiar whir of the elevator was heard but that's not what got their attention. It was a presence! It seemed to seep inside them, screeching, aching! It hurt!

Suddenly, a primal scream echoed through the elevator shaft! When the car arrived, Duncan ran to the grate and peered through. Inside, Nadya knelt on the floor cradling a trembling form in her arms.

"Mac, help me!"

The Scot rattled the grate open and Nadya got to her feet, holding a child close. "It's ok, sweetie. He's a friend. He's not going to hurt you."

"What's this?" Mac questioned. They soon all were seated on the couch, the child still clinging tightly to Nadya, tiny fingers digging into her shirt.

"I found her, last night. On the rocks."

"Alive?"

Nodding, Nadya began to relate the previous night's events. The whole time, the child clung to her, violet eyes trained on the floor. She never made a sound.

"Is she all right?" Mac asked.

"Yes, I think. The elevator must have scared her." Nadya stroked the child's hair quietly, rocking her a little.

"No, we did." The old man's voice sounded for the first time.

Nadya looked confused. "What?"

"She sensed us. She's Immortal, Nadya." Duncan sighed.

"What? No way! She is all of eight years old! How can she be Immortal?"

"Immortality is no respecter of persons. The question is: _how long_ has she been Immortal?" Duncan folded his hands, his forearms resting on his knees.

Methos had fallen silent again. Images passed behind his eyes, memories cut with dreams. This child…

"Pan."

It was a whisper, so faint he nearly missed it.

"What?" The sharpness in Methos' voice cut Mac and Nadya's conversation short.

"Pan!"

There it was again!

Finally, the child turned and looked straight at Methos. "Pan!"

His blood turned to ice in his veins. She was the same one! Same voice, same hopelessness, same ethereality. And she had a face!

The Ivanhoe suddenly appeared in his hand! Methos was on his feet!

"Methos, what are you doing?!" MacLeod was incredulous.

"Put it away!" Nadya cried. The child began to shriek again, more ear-piercing than before!

'End her! Stop the dream!' This was no time to be hearing voices in his head!

"Methos!" Nadya screamed at him, clinging to the hysterical little girl. "She's just a **child**!"

'If you don't, you will never have peace.'

"Put it down, Methos! Have you lost your mind?" MacLeod stood in front of the outstretched Ivanhoe, between Methos and the girls.

'Have I?'

The next thing Methos knew, he was on Mac's roof, trying to make the world make sense. His muscles hurt from gripping his sword so hard but his hand had not yet slackened on the pommel of the blade.

She'd called him 'Pan'. Why? What was in his past that he was missing? Or denying?

When he finally came back downstairs, Methos saw Nadya sitting on the couch with the child, reading to her. The girl spotted him first but made no sound. Instead, she quietly took the book from Nadya, slid from the couch, and padded over to the weary old man, holding out the book.

His mind still blurred, spinning, Methos reached out slowly, mechanically, taking the hardback in hand. It was open to an illustration of a boy-child clad in clothes made of flaxen, barefoot, a sword at his side and a panpipe in his hand. He had a look of triumph, mischief. Peter Pan, the boy who would ever be a boy, the same…forever.  
  
...........................................................................................  
**_  
You owe me a life._**

Methos awoke to find her—Ertia as Nadya called her—sitting at the foot of his bed.

Was she real?

Real or not, she spoke, "You owe me a life, Pan."

"Who are you?"

The child held him with an unwavering gaze. "I am the product of your lies."

"What?"

"Don't you remember? In Arcadia, long ago…?"

Methos hid his head. "There's much I don't…don't want to remember."

She still sat cross-legged on his sheets. "Remember, Arcadia…"

"Leave me alone!" His voice echoed to every corner of the apartment.

When he looked up, she was gone!

It started in his stomach, twisting and knotting. It then swelled into his chest and throat, choking him. The shadowed room blurred, his eyes stung with salt and water.

Finally, everything broke inside. He drew up his knees and the old man sobbed.

He was in the dark, alone.


	5. A Madness Barely Contained

**Disclaimer**-- Duncan MacLeod, Methos, Joe Dawson, and all such wonderful characters certainly do NOT belong to me. They merely show up in my life now and again and whisper stories in my ear. Especially Methos, he loves to get me into situations of obsession that I then have to "write my way out of". I think it amuses him. But, so as to avoid any legal banter, these characters belong to people with LOTS more money and LOTS more lawyers than me (seeing as I am a poor grad student). Any other characters belong to amin (I) or are people of myth (Pan). So bravo to Davis & Panzer and on with the story!

...............................................................................  
  
Chapter 5 -- A Madness Barely Contained  
  
..............................................................................

No one saw Methos for days. Nadya kept Ertia in her home, leaving the docile child with Mac when she went to work. Ertia did not speak again but listened to and watched Nadya intently, almost as though she were studying her.

Having been informed of the situation, Joe had people working around the clock trying to find an 8-year-old Immortal child, true age unknown, in the Watcher records. All that turned up was a brief sighting in ancient Greece, specifically Arcadia, of a child running from a grove with blood on her tunic. The description sounded a lot like Ertia but it was still uncertain as nothing had ever been seen or heard of that child since.

So Ertia lingered on in her silence, giving no explanation for herself nor for Methos' seemingly short-term madness. In fact, most of the time, she was like a life-sized Annette Himstedt doll, so still and silent was she. Her constant companion was the Peter Pan storybook. She would stare at it for hours on end, always open to the same gilded page.

"Mac, will you watch her? I'm worried about Methos; I'm going to check on him." Nadya requested, setting her small charge on the couch with her book one afternoon.

"Sure!" MacLeod settled next to the silent child, who barely seemed to notice him or Nadya, her steady gaze on the book.

..........................................................................................

Knock-knock!

No answer.

Trying the door, Nadya found it unlocked. "Strange. It's not like Methos to leave his door open."

As she careful swung the door in, she heard a clank behind it. Stepping into the flat and shutting the door, she saw that Methos' Ivanhoe laid haphazardly behind the door, of no use to its owner should an enemy appear. And that worried her.

The entire flat was silent, even the air was still. Nadya made sure to lock the door behind her.

"Hello? Methos?"

Murmurs wafted to her ears from the bedroom. It seemed to be a conversation but the voice was the same.

—"What is it?"

—"Maybe you forgot."

—"How could I forget _her_?"

—"Have to find it! Must make it stop!"

Nadya stepped silently into the bedroom doorway. The room was strewn with papers and books and files, the bed in shambles as though deserted for being unsuccessful in its job. And there, in a corner, poring over some papers, was Methos, muttering incoherently to himself.

"Methos!" She could hear the concern in her own voice.

"Do I really look that bad?" It was more of rhetoric than interrogative.

Suddenly, he hurled the papers away from him! They caught the air and flipped back, snapping in different directions, finally landing on the floor.

"It's not here!"

The ancient then dropped his head into his hands, his whole body reflecting despair.

Methos was a disheveled mess. He was unshaven, hair sticking out at weird angles. He wore a rumpled gray t-shirt and black sweats, his feet bare on the island of carpet.

Heedless of the sea of paper, Nadya strode to him quickly, dropping to her knees. Reaching out, she cupped his face in her hands and raised his bowed head.

"Methos…?" Her breath caught in her throat once more as she looked at the face before her. The old man was haggard, his face drawn. His eyes were red and circled in black, evidence that he had not slept in a very, very long time.

Nadya ran her thumb over his jawline, rough with the stubble of dark facial hair that was prevalent. He looked…older, if that were possible. Much older.

"Methos, what's wrong? Please, tell me."

All he said was, "I don't remember."

.......................................................................

"Here, drink this. All of it!" Nadya felt like she was coercing a child to take his medicine. "Careful, it's hot."

The mug-full of steaming black liquid posed no quarrel to Methos, however, who immediately guzzled the burning coffee.

Nadya flinched as she thought of what the boiling stuff must have done to the sensitive skin of his throat. Then she reminded herself, "He's Immortal; he will heal."

The mug plunked down so hard it almost broke; it was as if he had not the strength merely to hold it.

Nadya picked up the mug, wiping the remains of the coffee that had splashed onto his hand and wrist. "Methos, you're going to go mad if you continue like this," she spoke softly, like velvet, as though to a small boy.

Methos still said nothing. His eyes were empty and worn. It was as though there was nothing behind them, like he was merely a shell, a husk with the essence burnt out.

"I don't remember…" he murmured again.

Nadya sat quietly. "What, Methos?"

His mouth opened and closed soundlessly a few times before he turned to her. Liquid shimmered in those tired, red eyes. "Nadya, I…I fear I may have done something…something I don't remember. Something to…what do you call her…Ertia."

She didn't know what to say; she just sat there. Ertia?

But Methos was speaking again. "I don't know what…I don't know why…but I'm afraid I did."

Nadya bit her lip. "Maybe Joe can…"

"No! Joe's tried! There's nothing in the files! Nothing!" Methos leapt up, knocking the wooden coffee table over. It must have just ignited his frustration because he kicked it as hard as he could!

Nadya heard the sickening breaking of bones as Methos fell back onto the couch; she knew his toes were broken. But he said nothing. He just sat there, head back, eyes staring up at the ceiling.

Nadya stood silently and picked up the coffee-table, setting it upright again. She then set up about cleaning up the apartment. Methos just needed time to think…his toes time to heal.

"Nadya, what are you doing?" his voice came finally.

"Just cleaning up a little. You can't live like this," she murmured. She then noticed that the sink was completely empty, squeaky clean. "Methos, have you been eating?"

No answer.

"Methos! You can't do this!" Nadya moved back over to the couch, sitting next to him. "What are you trying to do? Starve yourself to death?"

Methos looked at her then and the look in his eyes scared her. It was as if he had snapped and anger controlled him. "Leave."

She was dumbstruck. "Wha—what?"

"I said leave, Nadya! You can't help me! Just leave!"

She bit her lip. "Methos, you don't mean…."

"GET OUT OF HERE!!!" he bellowed and loomed over her, his hand raised. But he stopped…just barely. She had never seen 'Death' but now she was sure he stood over her.

For the first time, she was frightened…frightened of Methos. She saw his hand, shaking, still raised.

"Leave." His voice was low, measured.

Trying to hold back frightened tears, Nadya got up and fled the apartment, the door banging behind her.


	6. A Repressed Past

**Disclaimer**-- Duncan MacLeod, Methos, Joe Dawson, and all such wonderful characters certainly do NOT belong to me. They merely show up in my life now and again and whisper stories in my ear. Especially Methos, he loves to get me into situations of obsession that I then have to "write my way out of". I think it amuses him. But, so as to avoid any legal banter, these characters belong to people with LOTS more money and LOTS more lawyers than me (seeing as I am a poor college student). Any other characters belong to amin (I). So bravo to Davis & Panzer and on with the story!  
  
.................................................................  
  
Chapter 6 -- A Repressed Past  
  
................................................................. 

The woman had finally cried herself to sleep that night. When she was sure that Nadya was asleep, Ertia rose from her own little bed on the couch in the corner and crept quietly to Nadya's bed. She stood over the young woman, regarding her with those unusual violet-grey eyes.

'She means a lot to him…the most.' Ertia reached out a tiny hand and touched Nadya's neck. A feather-light touch, drawn along the lower part of her neck.

Finally, Ertia turned and padded out of the house and into the night.

.................................................................................

"Pan…Pan…"

Methos' brows knit together as her voice rang through his head. Finally, he started bolt straight up in his bed; she stood there at the side.

He was tired. Every mental wall, every defense, every protection was gone.

"Remember Arcadia…" she murmured.

Methos hung his head, lolling to the side a bit, looking up at her through his lashes.

"Do you remember the revel in the grove? The woman who loved you? The woman you shared your Sanctuary with?" Ertia's eyes flashed, wide. "My mother?"

Life suddenly shifted to the left.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Torchlight twinkled beneath the moonlit heavens, the stars laughing at the goings-on below. The hillside woods were alive with rejoicing as the children of Arcadia danced in revel. A shepherd clad in white goatskin—the obvious king of this celebration—raised a flagon in libation.

"Blessed be Pan's Sanctuary!" he called above the scream of flutes and pound of drums.

"Blessed be!" came the joyous reply.

He then turned to the beauty clasped in his arm, kissing her cheek as he whispered in her ear, "Blessed be the daughters of Pan."

The woman leaned back in his embrace as the red wine flowed down her throat. "Blessed be," she murmured.

The wine was more than intoxicating, it was potent. The best of these hills, the best used in praise of Pan—god of Arcadia.

Further on in the grove there was a thicket, the soft carpet of moss a fitting bed for the shepherd and his chosen lass. Here they stumbled, in each other's arms, away from the gathering. He kissed her again as he laid her down upon the forest floor.

She smiled up at him, the wine-red flush in her cheeks. "Blessed be Pan."

Her shepherd smiled lopsidedly. "I am Pan."

Her eyes widened slightly, moving rapidly, as though looking for horns protruding from his mussed dark hair or for immortality to twinkle in that bearded face. Then she smiled again, drawing him to her. "Pan."

.........................................................................................

The moon had not even begun to set when Methos felt a presence wash over him, waking him from sleep, a strong one. The effects of the wine made him sluggish but still he gathered his clothes and hurried from the grove, leaving the woman who had been sleeping beside him on the moss.

He didn't know her name.

And he never looked back.

..................................................................................................

"My darling, I have met the god of these hills!" A brassy-tressed woman hurried to her hut where her child lay sleeping.

A dark-haired little girl of a mere eight summers rose from her trundle bed, reaching her arms out for her mama. "I missed you! Where were you, Mama?"

She gathered the child into her arms. "Oh, my precious, I am here now. But listen to me! I have met Pan! The Pan to whom we pray! Pan loves me! He loves you, my child!"

The little girl had often heard her mother talk of Pan, the god of these hills. The god of shepherds and the god of the Sanctuary. Yet she didn't know quite what the woman was getting at. Her mother could be strange sometimes, but she loved her.

The lady swept her daughter up into her arms. "My love, we can be with Pan forever."

The child gave a questioning look.

"Trust me, darling."

And she did.

The next dawn found them back in the grove, in the Sanctuary. The child lay on boulder beneath a cypress tree. Her mother hand stroked her dark hair, her lips pressed against her daughter's forehead.

"Courage, my love. We will be together soon, with Pan…forever."

She stood, raising a knife above her daughter's body.

She woke! But…she wasn't supposed to be awake. She was supposed to be in the Fields with her mother…with Pan. But she was still in the grove. Had her mother missed?

The little one looked down at her tunic. Blood was everywhere…all over her…all over the boulder.

Mama? Where was her mama?

"Mama? Mama, where are you?"

The child turned and slid down off the boulder. There was her mother…lying on the grass, blood still spilling from the wound in her stomach…her eyes open…the knife near her hand.

"Mama? Mama, wake up." She nudged her mother. "We need to go home now."

No movement.

In tears, the child rose to her feet and stumbled away, knowing that her mother was dead. She ran from the grove, into the wilderness, never to see Arcady again.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Methos shook his head. "I was...drunk...I'm not Pan...I'm not..."

"But you told her you were! Your lie to my mother destroyed us! She is dead because of you! I have wandered for three thousand years **because of you**!" Ertia's voice was small, young, but laced with a hopeless hatred. "You…owe…me…a…life!"

Methos felt something cold wrap around his mind, grip his heart. Reaching beneath the bed, Ertia grasped the Ivanhoe, pulling it up. Holding the sword hilt with both hands toward him, she spoke again.

"Her life for mine! You own me a life, Pan!"

Standing, Methos moved towards her, his eyes never leaving hers. The cold around his mind grew tighter, colder. His hand wrapped around the Ivanhoe, taking it from her.

"It is time, Pan." Ertia murmured. '_Then they will leave me in peace.'_


	7. The Price of Atonement

Disclaimer-- Once more, Duncan MacLeod, Methos, Joe Dawson, and all such wonderful characters certainly do NOT belong to me. They merely show up in my life now and again and whisper stories in my ear. Especially Methos, he loves to get me into situations of obsession that I then have to "write my way out of". I think it amuses him. But, so as to avoid any legal banter, these characters belong to people with a great deal more money and a greal many more lawyers than I (seeing as I am a poor grad student). Any other characters belong to _amin_ (I) or are creatures of myth. So bravo to Davis & Panzer and on with the finale!  
  
....................................................................

Chapter 7 -- The Price of Atonement

....................................................................

"Wait! Wait! What do you mean she's gone?" Duncan asked incredulously.

"I mean she's gone. Ertia's not here, Duncan! I woke up and she was gone!" Nadya almost shouted into the phone.

"OK, calm down. Where could she have gone?" The Scot tried to be pragmatic.

"I don't know! According to you, she could have been wandering for centuries before I found her! I have no idea..."

"All right, Nadya. Calm down!" Duncan insisted. "I'll come over to get you and we'll start looking, OK? Just stay there."

Hanging up the phone and tossing it on the couch, he grabbed his coat and hurried out the door to the Thunderbird.

Meanwhile, Nadya paced the studio, wondering where in the world Ertia could be. Finally, she picked up the phone and dialed another number...Methos' number. Something in her was still scared of him but there was no time for that now.

Ring.  
Ring.   
Ring.   
Ring.   
Ring

_'Blast it, Methos! Pick up!'_

"Hi, you've reached Adam Pierson. You know the drill."

Nadya slammed the phone down. She couldn't wait for Duncan. If both Ertia and Methos were missing, this couldn't bode well at all. Grabbing her leather jacket and scribbling a note for Mac, she hurried to her car, unaware that eyes were watching her, waiting for her.

She remembered a place where Methos sometimes hid when he needed to be alone....an old garden behind a cemetery on the west side of town. Maybe he was there; something told her that if she found him, part of her worry would be over.

.............................................................................................  
  
The gravel crunched beneath her feet as she strode down the small pathway through the garden. The sky was grey, the air cold. Cold like death. The kind of cold that seeps under your skin into your bones and makes itself at home there. She looked around as she walked. 

"Adam?" She never used his name in public. "Adam, are you here?"

Just then, there was a step behind her. Turning, she found Methos standing there, half-behind a hedge.

She sighed in relief. "There you are! I was just about to..."

Nadya then saw that his Ivanhoe was in his right hand, his other holding onto something...holding onto Ertia's tiny hand.

"Ertia?"

The child shook Methos' arm as she stepped into view. "It's time, Pan."

He looked at her and then at Nadya. Releasing Ertia's hand, he began to walk towards her. Nadya saw that look...the look that frightened her, like a madness barely contained.

"A life for my life." Ertia spoke. She stood there like a little doll, arms at her side, head up to watch all.

"Methos, what are you...?" Nadya found the blade at her neck in a trice, the cold edge pressing her skin.

He meant to kill her!

"Methos...please! Methos, don't do this."

The blade pressed even closer, she could feel pain prickling along the line of the edge.

Ertia hurriedly moved closer at his seeming hesitation, her eyes reflecting the pure madness that struggled for dominance in Methos' own. "Do it! You owe me a life!" Her voice was strong now, determined, hateful!

Methos' hands shook. He could see the tears roll down Nadya's cheeks. She flinched and shut her eyes as he drew the blade back to strike!

"No."

There was the whistle of steel in the air and the sound of small body falling to the gravel.

Then it began.

Methos hurt! He hurt more than ever before. He saw what he had done, what his drunken lie had caused. He saw Palmira's death, her daughter's sacrifice and haunted Immortality. The girl who would ever be a child. A child without feeling, without love...for three thousand years. He heard the voices that had driven her, the madness.

When it was over, he was crying. Crying for her childhood lost in hopelessness and revenge, crying for her mother, crying for himself.

He fell, but arms bore him up.

Nadya said nothing. Just held him, looking straight ahead, until his sobs subsided.

That was how Duncan found them.

-------------------------------------------------------- 

A pyre brightly burned in the night, reducing a little body to ash. Methos watched as the fragrant smoke rose up over Arcadia from a grove at the foot of the mountain known as Pan's Sanctuary.

"Here is where you should have lived and died, little one," he whispered as he poured her ashes into a small hole beneath a cypress tree, a hole he dug and filled with his own hands.

"Be at peace."

And she was.

=======================================

_Though many an unsung elegy _

_Sleeps in the reeds our rivers hold, _

_O goat-foot God of Arcady! _

_Ah, what remains to us of thee?_

_Ah, leave the hills of Arcady, _

_Thy satyrs and their wanton play, _

_This modern world hath need of thee. _

Excerpt from "Pan" by Oscar Wilde


End file.
